


first impressions

by Khismer



Category: Vampire: The Masquerade – Bloodlines (Video Game)
Genre: not so much rewriting the scene as tweaking it to be more protagonist-specific, reuses......... a lot of canon game dialogue t b h.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 10:50:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17222621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khismer/pseuds/Khismer
Summary: first impressions are everything. this one’s pretty shit.





	first impressions

If there’s anything Lucia can trust, it’s that anyone involved in politics is distinctly _un_ trustworthy. Vampire politics don’t seem to be an exception to that rule.

Find a tape, Lu, it’ll be easy! No, you won’t have to beat off hordes of fleshy abominations to get it, and your reward for finding it certainly won’t be having to crawl through a filthy sewer system infested with a horrorshow of even _more_ fleshy abominations, oh, heavens no!

Ugh, the things she does to avoid decapitation.

Given the state of the surrounding sewers, she’d sort of thought she’d be facing something dire when she took her plunge — tunnels flooded with those goddamn ankle-biters, or the bloody aftermath of such an attack, or… something.

But this is not what she finds. No, what she emerges into is downright cozy.

Strings of lights, neon signs, plush couches with signs of wear but no tear — she simply _must_ get the name of their decorator when this sarcophagus business is taken care of — and a distinct lack of death. There isn’t even a hint of that cloying smell of decay that followed her through the sewers. Though… there are an awful lot of empty rooms. Where _is_ everyone? Did those Tzimisce creations sweep through here already, or has she managed to stumble on some abandoned, if well-decorated, subsection of the sewers? If she has to climb back out that hole and start this godforsaken search anew…

But something — a flash of movement maybe, or a soft noise that she can’t attribute to the buzz of the lights or the echo of her own footsteps — draws her to an untried door, and this is how she meets ‘the resident tech-head.’

It takes several minutes of waiting around, twining strands of hair around her finger, to get his full attention, and then there is that dreadful, time-wasting business of introductions — ‘ _yes, I’m LaCroix’s errand girl, yes, I’m very interested in speaking to Gary, no, I’m not asking because I’m here for payback or to off him, LaCroix fucking wishes, what was that about a network?_ ’

She leaves with a promise to check her email as soon as she’s out of the warrens, and the knowledge that the person she seeks is ‘just down the hall.’

— though, even with Mitnick’s directions, she ends up just a _touch_ off course, and the owner of the room behind the next door she opens is…

‘ _Imalia, Imalia, now_ where _have I heard that name before? —ah, did you ever do a shoot in Monaco? I worked with a guy who did the lighting for that who just_ raved _about it the entire time we were arranging that gallery, it was all he could talk about for days. That you? Fantastique, lovely to meet you._ ’

She accepts a webcam even as she imagines all the ways it could break in between now and the next time she reaches the surface, with all that crawling through the sewers she’ll have to do. Still, she just can’t say ‘no’ to a pretty face.

Down the hall, down the hall, further and further, stepping lightly across the broken bridge, until she reaches a point where there _is_ no more hall, just… a narrowing that looks suspiciously like the beginning of a tunnel. But at the end of it is a door, visible when she hunches, so on hands and knees, she continues forward. These tunnels were clearly not designed with someone of her stature in mind. She is going to have _words_ with the architect when she gets out of here.

As she reaches the door, the tunnel widens enough for her to stand, thankfully, and she pauses before she pushes them open. Right. Primogen ahead. Gotta look sharp. First impressions are everything, no? There’s nothing she can do about the… unfortunate stench she’s picked up from swimming through sewer-muck, but she can at _least_ rub the dust off her palms and brush wayward strands of hair out of her face.

And then she is… well, she cannot possibly look _good_. But this is, perhaps, as good as she’s going to get. She draws herself up to her full height, steels herself, and strides through the doors.

...into an empty room.

Ah. Well. That’s… rather disappointing.

The decor’s not bad in here, at least, though it could do with a good dusting. Skeletons placed in a ghoulish facsimile of life? A bold artistic choice.

She runs her fingers through the bright orange wig on the skeleton closest to her. Synthetic? Or just dyed human hair? _That_ is one of those little details that can make or break a display. If she ignores the dust, it _is_ smooth enough, so perhaps —

And then there is a voice, so close behind her that she begins to drop into a defensive stance and her fingers twitch towards the sledgehammer strapped to her back before she realizes herself.

_Not your space, don’t offend, just keep your cool and get some answers so you can end these bullshit errands and get back to your life_.

She lets her hands go slack and forces some of the stiffness from her stance. There is an apology ready and waiting on her tongue to smooth over the misunderstanding as she rises and turns — but there is no one there. No one at her side. No one behind her.

“Where…?” The word is faint. She has forgotten to breathe again. “Where _are_ you?”

This time, there is a chuckle, just by her ear.

“ _Maybe I’m in your head,_ ” breathes the voice, and she _does_ react this time, arm jerking out in a wide arc. She touches nothing but air.

“Stop that.” A crack in her voice halfway through ruins the demand. Quavering is _not_ conducive to an imperious air. “I’m not here for — for payback,” she says, recalling what Mitnick said. “I just want to talk.”

“ _We_ are _talking._ ”

The voice comes from her other side now, and again, her fingers are met with only air.

“ _But you aren’t listening, boss.”_

For the briefest of moments, she wonders whether this is some elaborate trap, and some new Tzimisce creation is trying to tangle her up in panic, but — no, no, no, that doesn’t make sense, other Nosferatu are just down the way so they can’t have reached the warrens, and those fleshy little monsters can’t talk, anyway. ...they had _better fucking not_ be able to talk.

Tzimisce or no, though, she _is_ being fucked with, that much is clear.

She makes a cautious loop around the table, peering under it and into the darkened corners, but she still can’t make out the source of the voice.

“...I don’t like games,” she murmurs.

“ _And you’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you_ , lovely?” Her lip curls at that tone. “ _People just love your charisma, your_ face. _They eat your words up like rats eat the cheese from the trap. Oh, boss, where do you think you are?_ ”

She hisses a breath out through her teeth. “I think I’m in some dank-ass sewers having a grand old time with some jackass who won’t show his face taking potshots at me,” she mutters — though not softly enough, apparently, because the next moment, she’s tripping over her feet as the voice returns, slipping over her like fingers tracing down her spine.

“ _Maybe I’m a ghost._ ” There’s a laugh as she stiffens. “ _Oh, c’mon. Don't tell me you just stumbled down here. What I need to know is, why you’re here._ ”

The fuck does he _think_ she’s here for? “Come out and we’ll talk it over,” she says, aiming for diplomatic even as her hands clench into fists at her sides.

“ _I’m over here, boss! Wait, maybe I’m over here!_ ” True to form, his voice bounces around her, following when she turns her head to track it. _“Or maybe I’m behind you, with a hatchet in my hand._ ” Can you get motion sickness when you’re standing still? Because all this twirling and spinning and echoing is really doing a number on her head.

She settles herself on the edge of the table and tips her head back, squeezing her eyes shut. A grimy ass-print on his nice table is the price he gets to pay for taunting her.

“ _Or... did you ever stop to think that your fear, if given a voice, would sound... like..._ this _._ ” That last whisper is close enough to make the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

“Stop it.”

“ _What’s the matter, boss? You scared? That’s good... shows you've been paying attention._ ”

Her mouth slants down sharply. Scared? He thinks she’s _scared?_ Ridiculous. The idea sets her teeth on edge, fangs and all.

“What do you _want_?” she hisses — and then flinches back at the sudden contempt in his voice.

“ _I want to stick your lovely face in a piranha tank; I want to apply an acid glaze to your sculptured body; I want to throw your pocket mirror under a thresher and watch you fetch it._ ”

Her hands clench on the edge of the table, sawing little rivulets in the lacquer with her nails. Well, that’s — pretty fuckin’ personal. What’s she ever done to him, huh?

When he next speaks, his voice is almost cloyingly sweet compared to that _delightful_ little confession. “ _But I’m no butcher, boss. Are you?_ ”

And oh, but the urge to be one itches at her. It would be so _easy_ to slam her sledgehammer right into the middle of his fancy little tableau vivant and turn this entire display into nothing more than bits of bone and sawdust. She lets her fingers flex, imagining the weight of the weapon in her hand and how satisfying it would be to put an end to this maddening little game — and then she crosses her palms carefully over each other. It’s only a fantasy. “I’m just here for the sarcophagus.”

“ _You don’t say. Wake up, boss! Who do you think you’re dealing with? Why else would LaCroix send you on this snipe hunt? Oh, that's right... I know you work for the prince._ ”

She has to suppress a snort at that. Who _doesn’t_ know that? Only been a vamp for a week, and already everyone she’s met knows _aaaaaall_ about her business. “Why even ask, then?”

“ _Because I like the sound of my own voice._ ”

And that — that growl, that _trill_ — startles a laugh from her before she can stop it. The bastard’s having fun with this.

“ _It’s not every day we get visitors, boss. I needed to hear it from you. You’re a long way from home, and neither the prince nor Isaac nor Nines have any domain down here. Tread carefully._ ”

She kneads the space between her eyebrows. “Great, you happy? All my cards are on the table. Now just… tell me about the sarcophagus so I can get out of here.”

There’s a door over yonder. If she opens it, will he pop out like the wizard of Oz, bereft of his curtain? She pushes off from the table and stands, tempted to try it, but his voice ringing out once more gives her pause.

“ _You should’ve got here sooner. That lot’s been sold._ ”

“To _whom_?” she demands. She takes a step forward, moving on instinct towards the last place the voice seemed to echo from — the door she first came in.

_“I like to discuss business face-to-face._ ”

Of _course_ he does. And his voice is behind her, _again_.

“Then show yourself.”

“ _Are you sure, boss? You don’t want my image in your subconscious. It’s the stuff nightmares are made of._ ”

She bites back a scoff. “I’m _dying_ of anticipation.”

“ _Careful what you wish for, you just... might... get it._ ”

He grows quieter and quieter until she can’t hear anything at all. Where, where, _where_ …?

“ _Behind you, boss — boo!_ ”

She whirls, and there, towering before her — no easy feat at her height — is the figure that has been taunting her all this time, and he is —

— _not_ that fuckin’ bad looking. _This_ is the face that’s supposed to haunt her nightmares?

The disconnect is enough to startle her out of all the things she’d planned to say — something along the lines of ‘ _you slimy-ass, smarmy motherfucker, where do you get off making my job harder_ ’ but with just a _touch_ more snarling — and what tumbles out of her mouth instead is far briefer and lacks much of the _delicate_ nuance of her original plan for her soliloquy:

“Fucking in _credible_.”

His face twists in displeasure and a spark of delight flares in the pit of her dead stomach. Oh, this is _much_ more fun when she can see his reactions.

So she gives him a slow, obvious once-over and raises her chin sky-high, a flippant gesture done solely to get under his skin. Would that she only had a pair of sunglasses to complete the mask of indifference.

“You sure are _something_ , huh?”

A scowl appears on his face.

“En garde, Toreador. You vainglorious, narcissistic poseur!” Looks like that hit its mark. She bites back a grin. “How I loathe that determination of your kind to belie your true nature with Paris fashions and pomp. You are a dead thing — a creature of the shadows. _Start acting like one._ ”

‘Toreador.’ People do seem to put an awful lot of stock into this whole ‘clan’ thing, don’t they? Should she assume that _this_ is the reason for some of those lovely comments and he has _not_ , in fact, divined the true nature of her soul from a brief conversation? How interesting. And how... _informative_.

“I,” she says, “am _not_ going to ask who you are, because if I went through all this and you _aren’t_ Gary, the disappointment might strike me dead on the spot.”

“What? You don't recognize me from the pictures? _Gorgeous Gary Golden_? Don't tell me you missed _Pirate Town_ or _Tap Hotel?_ ” He tilts his chin up and angles his head as if to call to mind some iconic pose or image. There’s a self-satisfied twist to his lips when he next speaks. “Little before your time, eh, boss? Well, those days are long past. Nowadays, it's just Gary.”

Oh, this is _definitely_ more fun now that she can see him. The expressions, those motions, all topped off by that _voice_ — she just might look into those movies of his when she has a free moment. If only LaCroix didn’t have the sword of Damocles hanging over her head — but such is the way of things. And nobody does anything for free.

So: “I take it you have a favor or two lined up for me before you let slip whatever secrets you have?”

“Real original. You think that up all by yourself?” She splays a hand across her chest and grins, the picture of false humility. “Tell me, boss, you ever gone up against a Kuei-jin?”

Like that life-sucker Knox turned her onto? “Sure, I’m a regular Kuei-jin killing machine.”

That earns her a chuckle. Not a bad sound.

The bottom line is simple: head a rescue mission to retrieve a stray Nosferatu from Chinatown and she’ll learn the location of the sarcophagus.

Pretty straightforward. Still, she taps a finger against her lips, deliberating as though she really has any room to bargain. “Don’t suppose there’s anything you can give me to make this a little easier?”

His eyes narrow. “That thing behind that pretty face of yours is called a brain. If you want to survive in Chinatown, I suggest you use it. Or if all else fails, you could just use your pocket mirror to blind them.”

Her lips twitch up. “ _Merveilleux_. Would’ve never guessed that without your expertise. I suppose all that’s left to do is get to it.”

“There’s a payphone in Chinatown. I’ll call you with the info once Barabus is safe.” There’s a particular sort of gleam in his eye when he says, “until then, you’ll never know where I am.” She’s inclined to believe that.

“Yeah, yeah… ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you,’ right? She levels a steady finger at him. “I _will_ have your Barabus back by dawn. So you be ready for that phone call.” And she turns on her heel.

That side door she saw earlier, there’s decent odds that leads to another tunnel and not a closet, right? Because it’s hard enough to saunter in shit-caked heels — sue her, she was dressed for a glitzy Hollywood outing, not for slogging through sewers — and having to immediately wobble back the way she came would be _mortifying_.

But no — she pushes open the door and there is a path stretching out ahead of her. Thank god. Still, she pauses, one hand resting on the doorframe.

“By the way,” she says, “you keep saying such sweet things, and people will start to _talk_.”

She doesn’t bother looking back. She knows how that trick goes.


End file.
